Sound and Fury
by AratherViciousBunny
Summary: Harry Potter is deaf. When people lose a sense, they say that the other senses are enhanced. With magic, however, it's not that simple, as Harry Potter can certainly attest to.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or any of the ideas associated franchise. Those belong to J.K. Rowlings.

If I owned Harry Potter, I would likely be relaxing in a nice secluded beach house, right now. Also, probably wouldn't be writing fanfiction. Although, Neil Gaiman wrote some superb H.P. Lovecraft fanfiction that you should most definitely read! Fantastic author, all around, the Sandman is by far my favorite graphic novel series. What was I talking about? Oh right, the story. In the words of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, on with it!

Sound and Fury

Have you ever gone underwater? Of course you have. Have you ever gotten water in you ears? Of course you have. Deafness is a bit like having water in your ears, except it never leaves and eventually you just accept it. Not every deaf person is completely deaf. Some are born fully or partially deaf in one ear, others fully or partially in both. Some people can go deaf temporarily if they get an ear infection and water gets trapped behind the ear drum. There's always exceptions to being deaf. My form of deafness just happened to be odd, yet perfect, and often useful.

See, I'm deaf. Nobody really knows I'm deaf, but I'm deaf.

"But Harry!", you say, "Harry, how come noone knows your deaf? Wouldn't they realize after you can't hear them talk."

Well that's a bit of a tricky thing. See, at the age of 6, or 8, or even most of 10, I couldn't really explain how I always seemed to know what my teacher was saying even when I couldn't hear her words. It's difficult to explain, and the only time I ever tried I was stared at like I was a lunatic. I don't believe I ever truly heard her, or anyone else, or anything for that matter. In fact, I don't think me knowing what she was saying had anything to do with what words came out of her mouth. When people talk, it's like an instinct that triggers, and says to me, "Okay Harry. Right now, she's talking about how we need to learn our multiplication tables." or, "Okay Harry, now she's calling the kid in the third row who always talks too loud an ignorant little shit." or even, "Okay Harry, now she's going outside to go to the restroom and break down sobbing, wondering where she went wrong to deserve this sort of treatment."

I wouldn't necessarily call it reading her mind. I would say it's more like reading her language, reading her body, seeing what it says combined with some little instinct that can translate it all. It doesn't always happen, of course, but it's better than nothing, and it's saved my arse more times than I can count.

"But Harry!". you again cry out, "If you're deaf, how come you can hear music?"

Now that's interesting. Because I CAN hear music. I quite enjoy it, in fact, music is a brilliant thing. I've always been the odd one out, listening to Louis, and Wagner, and Gershwin, and Tchaikovsky, while almost every other classmate I had was hooked on rock and pop.

My theory about music is this: vibrations are vibrations. Words, my ears seem to refuse to pick up because they refuse to recognize them. Vibrations, however, sound waves, are pure. Vibrations aren't inherently human. Now, of course, you'd ask about lyrics, in which case I'd say to you: fuck you, it was a good theory. No goddamn clue why I can hear someone singing, but every time Ella starts to sing, my mind makes sure to listen.

Sometimes I can hear sounds, too, when something surprising or traumatic happens and pierces through the strange semi-deafness. When Richard, the American who came here when he was 6, set off three different cherry bombs, I could hear their fizzle and fwoosh as the bombs set off their sparkles under some of the lunch tables arranged in the small outdoor area where some of the kids ate. I could hear the car honking as it slammed on its brakes 5 inches from Sarah, who had pigtails and stuck mainly to herself. I could hear the sickening crunch as my arm broke last Tuesday from the Dorner's gang's beating.

The Dorner's gang was a gang formed around a little pub mistakenly placed two blocks from the set of schools around here. The kids who were just old enough to feel as if they had to prove something, but not old enough to drink, would go there every Tuesday to hang around and look as if they were part of the scene, and sometimes to ask if the bloke going in could buy them something to drink. It never actually happened, but they tried.

It was the end of May, just before summer break began. Most of the kids were paying even less attention in class, and bragged about which exotic location they were travelling to. My cousin, Dudley, however, had started making summer plans of his very own. Dudley had recently started hanging around with the Dorner's gang. Dudley had beaten up a rowdy 7 and 8 year old pair, brothers, and the gang had congratulated him in the unusual ways that gangs of bullies with too much ego do. Dudley was always angry at me, since I always seemed to get better grades, and he thought I was siphoning gifts away from him, or stealing from him, or talking to the girl he had a crush on that week, or whatever excuse he came up with for that particular month to justify his anger stemming, as it of course did, from petty jealousy.

This time, I had gotten a very rare compliment from Aunt Petunia on my weekly yard work (originally a chore, but it had grown into a sort of hobby). As a reward, she had given me 20 quid that Sunday and was told that I could take the rest of the day off.

To Dudley, this was unforgivable. He was in the process of inheriting his father's, my uncle Vernon's, beliefs that I was a lousy little kid who didn't deserve to live in their house, but only did so out of the kindness of Aunt Petunia's heart, her love for family, and those freaky people with sticks (although they would appear later).

Anyways, I had noticed Dudley's dangerous look that day, and spent that 20 quid fast, some on food that I hid away in the gardening shed, and the other 12 or so quid on two old records that the record store owner, a nice man named Remy, sold to me at a discount.

Come Tuesday, Dudley brought two of the gang with him to beat me up just before school began. I had been running late, and Dudley and the other two took advantage, catching me 10 minutes before class started by the younger kids' playground. I should've seen that it was deserted and avoided it, but I was nervous and rushing, not realizing I still had time.

They left my backpack around, presumably because it's harder to run away when you have a backpack on, and this was about revenge, not taking my stuff. They pushed me around, the classic shove a Harry, before I stumbled over one of their shoes. Before I could get up, they started kicking, and kicking more and more until I was bruised all over. It was brutal, but I could endure it, until one of them (presumably Dudley), started stomping on my left arm. Fuck, I hate the kid, but his stomp hurts like hell, and in three pounds of his boot covered feet, I felt my arm break.

I don't think I cried. In fact, I don't think I did anything, except stare Dudley directly in the eye. "What the hell are you doing?", it reverbrated to my mind, his brain recognizing that I should've been sobbing on the ground right now. I kept staring at him, my eyes a mixture of pain, indignation, anger, and hunger. The last part, the hunger, he saw.

It was a hunger similar to a lion seeing a deer burst proudly into his den, and the lion licking his lips, knowing that the deer was his prey, now.

I remember looking at it like I was outside my body, to the side a bit, looking straight at my body as it lunged forward at Dudley, the arm that should've been broken swinging in a strange, almost slapping way, with white lights pulsing like rings all along it. As soon as my hand hit Dudley, I snapped back to my own body, and saw him fall down, not moving. His neck was at an angle no neck should ever be at. I didn't check if he was still alive. The other two boys stared at me. The one to the left of Dudley started shouting, and although my mind didn't translate what he said, it was likely along the lines of, "What was that, you freak? Did you fucking kill him? What the fuck!" The one on the right was scared. I could see his eyes staring at me with shock, pain, and some hate. He backed away slowly, likely to get someone. The one on the left started gesturing at me, shouting at me, approaching me. I ran.

I didn't run home, I knew that would be stupid. I still had my backpack with me, and I could survive for a bit before I found a new place to go, if there was any place that would take me. I ran east, instead. To the east of the town of Surrey is a forest. The forest was large, foreboding, and the most the kids ventured into it was a few hundred feet as a dare. In reality, it stretched for miles. It was unexplainable, but it must have been one of the only truly large and magnificent forests left in Britain, clustered with trees with dark green leaves that swayed on the edges and blocked off light further in.

I ran through every shortcut, alleyway, and back street I knew of to get there. I walked as naturally as I could through every busy street knowing that I had probably just murdered my cousin and given two boys some sort of mental trauma for the rest of their lives.

I knew the Bobbies would be coming, soon, to the school first, then to my Uncle and Aunt's house. I likely had 25 minutes before they spread throughout Surrey, but thankfully Surrey was a small town. It took me 22 minutes and 34 seconds to reach the small clearing just before the forest. It took me 51 seconds to run into the leaves of the forest.

I kept on running for about a quarter of a mile (did I mention that I'm a hell of a runner) before I felt I could stop. I vomited, first. I passed out, hidden as best as I could be behind a small mound of old timber that someone had chopped and forgotten. I believe my last thought before exhaustion took me was that I was glad I had packed extra food and water in my backpack that day.


End file.
